


A Debt of Gratitude

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Loyalty such as yours is a rare gift."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Debt of Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alex_Quine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex_Quine/gifts).



The grass was wilting under the early winter chill, and leaves lay scattered like so many gold coins on the wide lawns outside the great hall. His heels clicked on the slate stones of the wide stairs, a rhythmic sound that reminded him of nights on duty in the Citadel and it made him straighten up further. The memory was a little bitter still, but it made him long for the views from the walls all the same. Emyn Arnen, though by no means flat, offered humbler views.

The guards posted outside the wide doors greeted him warmly. "Captain! The Prince is expecting you."

 

Faramir was standing by the fire, half-turned toward the door, and before Beregond could speak, a resinous knot of wood burst with a snap like a cracked bone. The sound was sudden and sharp, but not as alarming as the look of panic that flitted over Faramir's features.

"My lord?" ventured Beregond, striding over and leaving the door open behind him in his haste. "Is something wrong?"

When Faramir looked up, there was a brief fever-like gloss in his eyes, but it vanished when he blinked. "No, Beregond. Nothing. I was merely startled." He smiled, and it was an easy smile, seeming unburdened by any worry. "Will you keep me company?"

"I came to report, my Lord, but I will stay if you wish me to." He offered a rueful smile. "Nothing draws me back to my home this night. Bergil is with his mother in the White City, visiting Iorlas, so what awaits me is an empty house."

"Surely there is nothing to stop you from doing both, Beregond? Surely a Captain can report to his superior and also stay to sup with him?" 

 

The wine was tart but fresh, the taste of frozen apples lingering. "I see nothing goes to waste," noted Beregond, lifting his goblet in a perfunctory toast. "Not even the victims of winter frost."

"It was on the advice of my wife," said Faramir. "I doubted her somewhat, but I must concede defeat: she knows more about the running of orchards and of brewing and wine-making than I do."

"I would steal apples from the stablehands when my father brought me along to the Citadel," said Beregond, smiling at the memory. "Small apples, wrinkled like prunes from long storage."

"I think I stole the very same ones. I remember seeing you at the stables once or twice as a boy."

"But that was an age ago, my Lord!", exclaimed Beregond, surprised.

"Are we truly that old, Beregond? Some dozen years or so ago, or two dozen. Hardly an age."

Beregond found he could not keep from laughing. They passed the rest of the meal in companionable silence punctuated by memories of times past until that same fever-like gloss flitted once again across Faramir's eyes. 

"Are you well?" asked Beregond, forgetting the title in his haste. The look in Faramir's eyes seemed... almost haunted.

"I confess that I was not entirely truthful with you. When you arrived, I was distressed. Though it was a spectral sort of distress, an ill memory, not something present." He paused, looking at his hands, then up at Beregond. "I owe you my life, Beregond."

"My Lord, I--"

Faramir held up his hand. "Loyalty such as yours is a rare gift."

"You have thanked me well enough," said Beregond, sweeping his hand down his chest, his fingers skipping over the White Tree embroidered on his surcoat. "I serve you gladly as Captain, my Lord." He swallowed thickly as a memory rose clear in his mind, a memory of helpless tears as he heard of what he had been so certain was Faramir's demise. It sat like a thorn in his mind, the memory of the realization that it was not mere loyalty to the son of the Steward that raised those tears but genuine affection. He had folded it back, hidden it amid layers and layers in his mind, and had succeeded, after a fashion, but he had, more than once, woken from dreams in which he failed to halt Denethor. 

"But grades and gold are poor recompense for what you have done, and for your continued service. What if I were to serve you, Beregond? If for one day, or indeed, for one night if that were your wish, I would be at your beck and call?"

Beregond frowned, a frown which deepened as Faramir approached him and sank to one knee in front of his chair.

"If you were Lord and I were knave?" There was a smile playing about the corners of Faramir's mouth, but the levity of his statement did not detract from the promise offered. "Or commander and Captain, should you wish that. Do not think this an entirely flippant offer, Beregond."

"I do not, my Lord, but..." Beregond trailed off, casting about for the right words. "Whatever I have wished for, you have given me already."

Faramir tilted his head. "Surely I cannot have divined each of your wishes."

"There was a time when I wished we were on equal footing, though for entirely selfish reasons," Beregond heard himself say, as though he were standing outside himself, and he paused before speaking again. "But that was-- but that was then. Please, my Lord, you need not kneel in front of me. You should not."

"And if it is of my own free will? My offer still stands. Now would be your time to command me as you see fit. And if your wish was to see us on equal footing, then I must ask that you use my name and not my title."

Beregond held his breath for a moment, then let it out in a great sigh. "Faramir," he said, the name familiar and strange all at once. "This is no small gift you offer."

"It is no small deed of bravery that I am offering up a reward for. Something stays you yet. What is it?"

He held his tongue. At length, he spoke. "I fear the years have stretched too wide."

Faramir smiled. "My affection has not changed. Has yours?"

Beregond started at the simple statement. He knew it was said Faramir possessed the Long Sight, that it let him see into the minds and hearts of men, but he had never imagined it to be a tool so keen. "No," he said, his voice stronger than he had thought. "But we have changed, our lives-- " he halted again. "I would not wish to take from your wife what is hers."

"I would not have offered had she been strict about what is hers. We give each other leave, after a fashion, to pursue what we desire if it will not hurt the other." He set his hand on Beregond's knee briefly, then grasped him by the wrist. "This is a debt of gratitude being repaid. She will understand." His hold tightened a fraction. "But mark that this is an offer, not a demand. Not an order. If you do not wish to accept it, if doubt stays you, then tell me so. I would not wish to take from your wife what is hers," he said, echoing Beregond's answer. 

"But you are not taking. You are offering." Strangely, he could feel a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "I think she would not protest at a debt of gratitude being repaid. I think-- I think she would understand. And your arrangement is not as strange to me as you might believe," he added, clearing his throat a little awkwardly. "Indeed, it is even familiar."

"Very well, then." Faramir's gaze was keen but kind, and the smile curving his mouth was knowing. "I await my commands, my Lord."


End file.
